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“There is never a time when a hunter is more dangerous
Than when he feels like he is prey . . .”

                                - Anonymous                 

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Twenty Miles Outside Silver Hills, California

6:20 A.M.

Sam Winchester blinked his eyes slowly open. He stayed still, letting his vision adjust and kept himself curled up in a tight ball on the front seat of the Chevrolet Silverado pick-up. The thick layer of warmth hugged even tighter by the woven blanket that sometime during the ride Celia must have thrown over his hoodie and jacket.

Sam sniffed heavily and blinked, trying to get the gunk out of the corner of his eyes without moving. His shoulder length hair was sticking to the back of his neck with sweat. He could feel the thin sheen of it all over his skin under his clothes and the light flush in his face.

Sam coughed heavily and trained his senses towards the outside world. The engine was thundering under the hood, but it seemed to be idle, just growling softly along. The radio was turned low to a local country music station. He heard the heavy breathing of the large German Shepherd dogs sleeping in the back seat of the truck cab; every once and a while one of them snorted and the clink of metal from their prong collars sounded over the music.

And rain. The sound of fat rain drops hitting the metal and glass of the Silverado and oddly loud somewhere above his head. Which to be technical was in the direction of the driver’s side, he was literally curled up on the large cushion of the passenger seat. So the driver’s door was open. Winchester training and instinct took over, he needed to find out if it was for reasons of danger or otherwise. He heaved himself up and twisted his head, his neck cracking from the strain and kinks suddenly getting straightened. His vision blurred for a second before clearing. The driver’s side door was slightly ajar, like there had only been an attempt to close it for benefit of keeping most of the rain out. There was no fear of the Silverado being stolen with two large dogs and a Hunter in its confines.

Reassured Sam dropped his head back onto the cushion and shifted, nesting down into the blanket and his layers of clothes, lifting and curling one arm up and hiding his face in the crook of his wrist. Sam’s eyes shut and he heaved a sigh before drifting back towards unconsciousness.

It was useful having someone around that couldn’t get sick. At least not from the common cold and stomach flu. It was even more helpful that that individual had a souped up, giant work truck with a roomy cab for a sick individual to retreat to recuperate and get away from a whinier-than-normal older brother.

Thank god for demon possessed, red-headed ranchers.

Sam’s drift towards sleep was interrupted suddenly when the driver’s door opened fully, the truck gave a small lurch then settled with a snap of the door closing.

“Red?” Sam rasped his voice a broken croak.

“Hey big guy,” her voice said with light tone and comfort deep in the words. “Ya feelin’ any better?”

“Yeah, actually . . . I need a shower . . .” Sam muttered. His eyes fluttered closed when her palm settled gently on his forehead, a few hours ago her skin had felt unbearably cool. Now it seemed relatively normal, the barest touch of chill on the surface.

“Feels like yer fever’s broken,” Celia Northwind said happily, shifting over and leaning over him to look down at Sam. The younger Winchester flickered one eye open to look back up at her. Taking in her tawny, but scarred skin, the russet hair and the blood colored pools of her eyes set into her pretty, heart shaped face. The Saint Michael medallion Dean had given her hanging from its chain around her neck. She smiled gently at him and Sam managed a smile back.

“Hi,” Sam sighed.

“Hey.” She grinned wider. “Aw, Sammy’s back. Welcome to the world of the livin’, sweetheart.”

“Leave me alone,” Sam mumbled and turned his face into the skin of his arm and the cushion. “Don’t tease me, I’m sick.”

“No, not anymore! Yer recoverin’ now so shut it!” She reached over and ruffled his hair playfully. Sam swatted at her but grinned. He always felt playful after coming out from under being sick.

“Come on, Red! Quit! I feel crappy enough as it is!”

“Alright, alright. Ya big baby. Here.” She set a plastic bottle on the cushion directly in front of his face. Sam eyed the bottle of Seven Up before awkwardly cracking it open and slugging back several large gulps.

“I’ll never figure out why that stuff settles the stomach.” Celia shook her head and settled back in the drivers seat before shifting into reverse and easing the truck backwards.

“Where are we?”

“Just short of Silver Hills, California”

“That job where people keep mentioning monsters popping up from time to time?”

“The same.”

Sam sighed. “Why couldn’t it be something easier . . . like a freaking Wendigo or bear walker?”

Celia chuckled low under her breath, gently turned the radio up and pressed down on the gas pedal, the engine roaring and thundering louder under the hood. Sam’s eyes started to drift closed and he swore he could hear the animalistic rumble of the Impala’s engine somewhere just out of sight. Sam shifted, settling, and quietly drifted back to sleep, his dreams lighter and far from the fevered nightmares from the last few nights.

…

“Hey, Sammy, how you feeling?” Dean Winchester asked, stepping up on the roll bar of the Silverado and leaning into the open window. The rain had stopped and the smell of damp earth and wet cement was refreshing in the air. Sam was happy to roll down his window and let fresh air into the stifling truck cab.

“Better,” Sam sighed and pushed himself up and over, Dean stepped back dropping down off the roll bar to look up at Sam from the street. The younger Winchester hung his head out the window, his mop of brown hair giving him the image of a large, shaggy dog.

“Too bad, I was getting used to having the Impala to myself,” Dean teased, easily hiding his emotions but the flash in his brother’s green eyes made it clear the Dean was overjoyed and completely relaxed that Sam was perking up. Dean was always irritable and twitchy when Sam was sick, having his little brother heading back toward one hundred percent eased the tension in his shoulders and spine.

“Where’s Red?” Sam asked, cocked his head a little. He’d missed the exit of the redhead.

“Getting coffee, can you stomach it?” Dean stepped around and pulled open the half door to the back seat and let the two German Shepherds drop down to the earth and stretch. Dean thumped his hand loudly on the sides of Valentine, the albino, and Buckshot, the black and tan.

“Right now anything that isn’t soup and Sprite sounds great,” Sam grumbled.

Dean laughed, the relief a bell-like noise in his chest and throat. Sam smiled slightly, glad he could inadvertently ease his brother’s nerves. It was getting harder and harder as the year drew to an end to get Dean to relax, laugh, and smile genuinely.

“She’ll be a minute,” Dean assured, and Sam yawned as he nodded.

--

“Trip, you need to have a little confidence. If you get shot down just try again, you know?” Wesley Collins urged gently. The young, teal haired alien shifted a little in his seat.

“I don’t know . . .”

“Trip . . .” across from him Lucas Kendall growled, looking a little fed up with Trip’s lack of interest in flirting. “The next girl that walks in here you’re asking out. Insist on it. Just flash her a smile and she’ll fall right into your lap.”

Trip Regis shot a look at the Blue Ranger then flashed his eyes nervously towards the front door of the café as it swung open and a smaller, slender woman stepped into the café seemingly right out of a western movie. Her skin was tanned a rich tawny color and russet hair hung loosely around her ears and shoulders, there was a hardened look on her face and in her eyes that immediately struck all three men as a reflection of what Jen looked like when she was on a mission.

Everything about the woman screamed hard work in hard times. Her stride was hitched, a very slight limp on her right side. The exposed skin of her hands, fore arms, face and neck were marked with discolorations of faded scars. She was dressed in jeans, a white tee shirt and an unbuttoned green, white and black flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. A thin silver chain hung around her neck was the only jewelry on her person and to top off the image a tan colored Stetson cowboy hat and Wolverine Combat boots. She looked all the world like a hardened cattle rancher.

How right they were.

“Her?” Trip practically choked on the word, staring at the woman in minute horror. His eyes never left her as she strode confidently up to the counter to order.

“Go!” Lucas hissed, snagging Trip’s arm and practically throwing the smaller and younger man towards the counter. Trip stumbled but continued his progress, feeling Wes and Lucas’ eyes on his back. He could mentally see the grin on the Blue Ranger’s face.

“Maybe not the best choice,” Wes growled to Lucas.

“Why not? Just another woman to cut his teeth on.”

“Lucas, she’s got a gun. Look!”

Lucas’ eyes snapped from the slowly advancing Trip to the woman, her back to then she leaned a little over the counter. Her flannel and tee shirt pressing into her back and gave the faint outline of a firearm holstered in her jeans waist band against the small of her back. Lucas’s eyes roved downwards. He saw the leather straps and buckles wrapped tightly around her lower calf, the carved, bone hilt of a dagger clipped into place on the mounted sheath. If she had those two things there was no denying that she was probably armed other ways too.

“Oh no,” Lucas muttered softly tensing up.

“Shit,” Wes whispered. “Trip!” His stage whisper made the young alien twist sideways to look back at him but Trip shrugged him off and continued forward, sliding up next to her as the woman ordered. Speaking quietly in a drawling accent from somewhere in the South West.

“Three coffees and six of those thirty-two cent doughnuts,” she said to the barista.

“The doughnuts are eighty nine cents,” the woman informed the redhead.

“Jesus, eighty nine? Helluva racket ya got . . .” the red head growled, clearly disgruntled.

“You still want them?” the barista asked.

“Yeah, six. Just the glazed,” the woman muttered, her hand moving to slid into her back pocket. The movement lifted her shirts enough for Wes and Lucas to get a better look at the gun for a few seconds before it was back out of sight as she slid a thin wallet out of her jeans and leafed out a twenty dollar bill to put on the counter.

Trip cleared his throat loudly and she twisted to look at him. Trip’s mouth went dry.

Her eyes were blood red.

“Hello,” Trip managed.

She cocked an eyebrow at him, looking a little skeptical but tried to be friendly. “Hi,” she said before turning her attention back to the workings of the barista. Trip fumbled but pushed on.

“You’re very pretty.”

Her eyes snapped back to him and looked him up and down. “Thanks . . . yer hair is a nice shade of green.”

Trip’s hand rushed to his hair, threading his fingers in it under his hat. He relaxed a little, even smiling genuinely.

“Are you new in town?” Trip said with a small smile as the woman handed over her money in trade for the carton and small bag the barista handed her. The red-head braced her hands on the counter and sighed heavily, she hung her head for a second and Trip’s smile fell from his face as he heard her repeating under her breath the words ‘be nice’.

“Look, I bet yer real sweet and smart and everythin’,” the redhead said gently but firmly, twisting to look at him. “But trust me, ya don’t want anythin’ to do with this.”

She motioned towards herself and took her change, coffee and food off the counter. She side-stepped around the rejected Trip and walked stiffly back towards the door.

Wes and Lucas both breathed a sight of relief. Their eyes still locked on the dagger and gun until she was out the door and walking towards a massive white truck in the parking lot next to a sleek black, classic muscle car.

Trip slowly walked back the table with Wes and Lucas, pulling his chair out to sink into it.

“So maybe she wasn’t the most ideal ‘next girl through the door’,” Lucas teased.

“Sorry, Trip,” Wes smiled at his friend and team mate before sipping his soda.

Trip stopped moving, tensing, and his eyes flashed up to the door. Before his friends could stop him Trip grabbed his jacket and rushed to the door, hoping she hadn’t left yet.

“Trip!” Wes barked, scrambling after the alien. Lucas in a rush after him.

--

Celia stepped over to the Winchester brothers, talking quietly between the Impala and the Silverado. “Soups on, boys.” She passed out two of the three coffees and set the carton and bag on the hood of the Impala.

“Cup of caffeine,” Dean rumbled happily, warming his hands around the Styrofoam.

“And doughnuts.” Celia unfolded the bag.

“Here, please.” Sam held out his free hand of the window and happily accepted two of the pastries and tore into them hungrily. Celia and Dean proceeded through their drinks and coffees with more delicacy. Celia leaned heavily back against the side of the Impala. Celia pulled out a doughnut and tore it in half to hand a piece to each of the dogs.

“What took so long?” Dean mumbled through a mouthful of coffee and pastry.

“Some kid was lookin’ for an exotic for prom,” Celia sighed.

Dean chuckled under his breath.

“Maybe you should give him a chance.” Sam flicked his eye playfully to Dean, trying to find the jealousy in the green eyes that wasn’t there.

“And risk statutory rape accusations? Pass.”

Dean choked on his food. “He was that young?”

Celia nodded. “Either that or real baby-faced.”

“And had green hair?”

Dean and Celia looked up at Sam.

“How’d ya know?” Celia asked.

Sam motioned towards the front of the café where the green haired teen and his two older friends where rushing after him. All three Hunters and the two dogs tensed and bristled. No Hunter liked the idea of someone advancing on them unwelcome. Their lives, or in the case of the Winchesters and Celia, each others lives, could be the weight of the situation. The way the three young men moved rapidly forward was a threat.

Dean set his coffee and doughnut down, already tensing up for a confrontation. And it was clear on the other end, the way the green haired teen balked suddenly and the other two rushed forward to flank him, they were too.

“Dean!” Celia barked. The elder Winchester snapped his head around hard to look at her, she was looking dead at him but it seemed more like through him. Dean stayed still then he snapped his head around towards the sound of patrol sirens. Sam dropped his coffee and grabbed a hold of the roof of the truck cab, with an awkward twist and haul he pulled himself out to sit on the edge of the open window and see over the truck.

The three Hunters tensed and ground their teeth together as two patrol units and an ambulance suddenly hurtled around a corner and tore top throttle down the street.

“Five-oh,” Dean growled, tensing.

“And they’re haulin’ ass,” Celia muttered, she and the Winchester brothers look after the emergency units for a second.

“Ambulance means someone’s alive,” Sam muttered, just low enough under his breath for his brother and Celia to hear.

“Move!” Celia snapped rushing around towards the driver’s side of the truck.

“Let’s go!’ Dean barked, shooting a glare at the three young men before grabbing the food off the Impala and tossing it inside. Sam gave a small scramble, hauled his weight out through the window of the Silverado and dropped to the earth, hauled open the door, letting the two German Shepherds back inside before snapping it shut. Sam then rushed to the passenger seat of the Impala. Both engines roared to life and scrambled, reversing and hurtling after the emergency units.

--

The damp grass prickled her bare skin as Jen Scotts lay down on her back and concentrated on taking deep, refreshing breaths after her morning workout; her legs shook and her gut ached with a deep cramp, she couldn't see but could feel her face flushed a bright red. As usual, she wore minimum clothing while exercising-- a sports bra and baggy pants -- but she still felt like she was trapped in an oven. Her throat hurt, her ears were ringing, her thick, dark hair stuck to her forehead in wet clumps. To some it would be a miserable way to start the day . . . but to Jen, it was perfect. She wanted the pain. She wanted to feel it. She wanted to know she was doing everything she could to stay in top shape so she could take down Ransik and every mutant he sent her way.

A footstep crunched in the ground behind her and she sat up, spinning around in one motion.

“Sorry,” Katie Walker said, sheepishly. “Didn't mean to startle you.”

Jen shrugged one shoulder, standing up and accepting the offered bottle of water from Katie. “It's fine,” she said. " . . . What's up?”

Katie smiled patiently at the young woman she had known since their childhood together, an act that secretly infuriated Jen. God, she hated being patronized. Katie seemed to sense Jen's annoyance and quickly amended: “Nothing's wrong, Jen. I just thought you could use a pick-me-up . . . you've been out here for two hours.”

“I needed to work off some steam,” Jen replied, taking a swig of the room temperature water and smacking her lips, enjoying the cool running down her parched throat. “Where're the guys?” she asked, wiping the beads of sweat from her brow.

Katie chuckled. “Wes and Lucas took Trip out to Nina's Cafe,” she answered. “Said they were gonna convince him to finally ask a girl out . . . even if it killed them all.”

Jen cracked a smile. The thought of the painfully shy Xybrian being corralled around by the outgoing, charming Wes and Lucas was amusing, to say the least. “Well, I hope they don't force him in over his head,” she said.

“Aw, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Jen nodded, beginning to walk alongside Katie as they made their way back to the Clock Tower, where the team of Rangers had been staying ever since their arrival from the year 3000; Wes’ father, the business tycoon Alan Collins, owned the property but hadn’t used it for anything in the ten years since he had purchased it. He had only recently become of their usage of it. The building was old, far over 100 years, but it was sturdy and it stood its purpose for the team . . . better yet, Ransik was completely unaware of it.

Jen paused after entering the Tower, letting out a small groan. Downside to the building? The ridiculous amount of stairs one had to climb in order to reach the top. Her already exhausted legs felt like lead by the time she came into view of their living area-- a dull, dimly-lit room with a picnic table, ratty couch and TV in the center. Over to the side, a large container they had acquired and used to store the mutants they had already captured. A small ladder led to a loft where all the cots were-- Jen and Katie shared one, while the boys piled into three of their own.

She glanced at the clock. “When are they coming back?” she wondered aloud.

“Who knows? How long do you think it’ll take Trip to work up the courage?”

“A week . . . maybe more.”

Katie laughed as she bent over and put the bottle into the refrigerator. Jen slumped down onto the couch, taking a long breath; absently, she fingered the white gold ring on her finger, smoothing her thumb over the diamond.

The act didn’t go unnoticed by Katie, who watched her friend sadly for a moment, recalling Jen’s excitement the evening her boyfriend, Alex Drake, had proposed; Jen had been glowing, her eyes sparkling, it was everything she had wanted ever since she was a little girl. Now Jen’s face changed, her eyes grew dark as terrible memories came back, and Katie knew she was back in reality . . . the reality was Alex hadn’t lived long enough to marry the woman he loved, Ransik had brutally beat him down and he died in Jen’s arms. She didn’t have time to mourn him, to bury him, before she and the others raced after Ransik in one of Time Force’s timeships, each equipped with a Chrono Morpher and Jen in possession of Alex’s; little did they know, their morphers were useless without someone as the Red Ranger.

Katie shook her head. It still amazed her, even months later, that they had ran into Wesley Collins the day after arriving in the past-- a man who shared nearly all the same physical traits as Alex, and apparently, the same DNA. They had given him the morpher, he unlocked it with his DNA by morphing into a Ranger, and ever since that day a couple months ago, they had all been a team.

Sometimes, Jen could be seen watching Wes longingly, imagining away his blond locks and replacing them with Alex’s severe, slicked-back, black hair. Even their voices were the same. Katie couldn’t fathom the amount of pain Jen went through every time Wes opened his mouth to speak, or flashed one of his heart-warming smiles in her direction.

Jen’s morpher bleeped suddenly, and a tiny figure of Wes appeared, speaking urgently: “Something’s going on downtown, Jen. Meet us at the plaza.”

“We’ll be there.” Jen nodded, shooting a look at Katie. “Let’s go!”

--